


Thank You Wembley

by Soobiebear



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soobiebear/pseuds/Soobiebear
Summary: Written for Dreamwidth's CMHSlash AU fest 2020: Musicians.  Instead of running a car show, the lads formed a band.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Thank You Wembley

“Thank you Wembley, and goodnight!” Jeremy threw his fist in the air as the band hit a downbeat and the stage lights turned off, draping them in darkness and allowing them to escape. 

They’d be ensconced backstage until the crowds let up, nothing to do but drink and smoke and wait for the crew to break down the stage and pack the equipment. It was a night’s drive to Manchester and a few gigs up north before they hit the continent. 

Jeremy scurried off the stage, following the torch his tech held out for him. He made sure Richard was behind him, always checking in on the Brummie bassist who never was quite the same after the bus crash. James was on his own, escaping to stage right from his keyboard set up. Andy was in front of him, the stodgy old jazz protegee that had turned them into a real band back in the day. Stig was a bit of an unknown still, even after all these years. He kept to himself but rarely caused any problems. They guys left him back in drumland. He always seemed to escape unharmed and earlier than everyone else and they’d stopped questioning it eons ago.

Jeremy pulled out his in ear monitors and let them drape over his shoulders. A roadie passed him a water and a towel as they hit the stage stairs and started winding their ways through the bowels of the stadium. 

“That was proper wicked,” James exclaimed, sweaty from the stage lights and keyed up in a way that meant he’d never sleep. “I can’t believe we played Wembley. It was my boyhood dream!”

Jeremy had to stop and shake hands with a few of the venue people and promoters on their way back to the dressing room. People seemed to clump to every corner and hide in every doorway. Women, often in low cut and tight fitting shirts batted their eyes at Richard, pursing their lips and trying to look available. Jeremy could see the tiredness in his eyes. It was a long tour already and there was still a long way to go. There was someone in a reproduction Stig helmet and even more oddly, a girl in a homemade shirt that said ‘I Love James May’ in big letters. She was clearly brain damaged, but he turned to check on James and point her out as they kept walking. 

James blushed but said nothing. Usually it was Richard or Jeremy who drew the female fans in. Fans of Andy and James tended to run ... how had Andy put it? Ernest grandfathers in greatcoats with stacks of 33s under their arms. They bought tickets and tshirts all the same and it helped balance things out. 

“Did they get the rosé on the rider or just more Fosters again?” Jeremy usually didn’t mind, grateful to have anything after so many years of struggling with nothing. 

“They found you a vintage called ‘Lady Petrol’ and no, I’ve not tried it yet.” Andy walked around a stack of flight cases and followed the signs posted to the walls. “And they’ve got Hammond’s gin and May’s sludge water.”

There were some hangers on in the lounge that Andy shooed away before they went off to shower and change. They had an interview with the local radio station in half an hour. Enough time to be presentable, not enough time to be drunk off their arses. 

Stig had disappeared, off photosynthesizing or whatever he did. James and Richard hit the showers. Jeremy sat while his sweat cooled and turned clammy, stiff white bath towel doing very little to dry or warm him in the concrete dungeon.

“Telly appearance in the morning, Clarkson,” Andy warned as he handed over a glass of wine. Andy rarely did the promo work, leaving it to Jeremy, James, and Richard with the camera friendly faces. “Try not to be too hung over again.”

All of his stage energy was still rippling through him. The PA was still thrumming away with music as the venue cleared out. Fronting a show for 50,000 fans had been wild. “I won’t,” he promised Andy as Andy left with the accountant to go over the night’s take.

He sat back in the abused chair and stared at the wall. Five minutes ago it had been a sea of screaming people and now he had a beige wall and gray carpet. The wall didn’t even move. He watched it as he sipped at his wine and let the alcohol run over his ragged throat. There would be another crowd tomorrow and another room, the same yet different.

Naked James shamelessly crossed the room and retrieved something from his wardrobe before making a beeline back to the shower. Jeremy laughed at the absurdity of it all. At least some things stayed the same.


End file.
